Anno Domini
by Sister-to-the-Queen
Summary: A slightly unorthodox Christmas tale. Second story in Dark Trails 'verse.
1. September

_Hello, everyone! This is the first chapter of Anno Domini, being my very first fluff story. It's also a Christmas story that is twelve chapters long, because I'm weird that way._

_This story is the second part in what I call the Dark Trails 'verse, and it's the sequel to the horror story of the same name. Therefore, understanding the goings-on in this story will be somewhat easier if you've read what came before, but for those who aren't into freakish horror, it can also be read on its own. Enjoy!_

_And there's a link to some mood music on my profile page._

_Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. No copyright infringement or personal profit was intended with the writing of this story._

_Warnings: none. Scary, isn't it?_

_Dedicated to Jean-Claude17 and Lunissa, both on dA, for being consistently, wonderfully weird. I love you guys._

_–––_

**_Anno Domini_**

_September_

_–––_

Forget fluffy, poofy pillows: fluffy, poofy angels were the way to go.

Such, at any rate, was Crowley's semi-conscious opinion, as he lay coiled, all two-and-a-half feet of him, around Aziraphale's neck, blissed out by the warmth, the nearness, and the ages-old familiar smell of dust and paper that the angel always carried about with him. When Crowley flicked out his tongue, he could almost taste it. And when Aziraphale reached up a hand from the book he was reading, to gently pet Crowley along part of his spine, the latter gave a hiss of drowsy delight, and shifted around so he could press his head to where Aziraphale's pulse was steadily beating, and let the regular, calm rhythm of it soothe him to sleep.

He was just inches away from sliding into dreams, when he felt a brief tremor pass through the shoulders part of him was resting on. He opened his eyes a fraction, then shut them again when nothing further happened. But a few moments later, another tremor twitched him awake again, then another and another. And there were these little snuffling sounds as well. Wait a moment, and Crowley forced his brain to come back online, was that Aziraphale? Was Aziraphale... Was Aziraphale _crying_?

Snatched into complete wakefulness now, Crowley partially uncoiled, raised his head, and questioningly nosed the side of Aziraphale's face. "Hey... Hey, angel? Are you okay?"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, nodded and smiled, and took out a pocket handkerchief to dab at his eyes. "Oh! Yes, dear, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. I _am_ sorry I've woken you, though: you seemed to be sleeping so soundly."

Dismissing that last bit with a wriggle, Crowley said, "If you were fine, you wouldn't be crying. So what's wrong?"

"Nothing, dear, really! I truly am fine. I was only crying because I'm happy."

"...'scuse me? That makes no sense. Crying because you're happy? And happy about what?"

"That you're here, dear," Aziraphale said softly. He smiled again, his eyes warm as Heaven's-blue amber. "You don't know how I felt when I thought you might have... that something had happened to you, dear, and I don't believe I'd ever be able to find words to express it. It's just... so good to know you're all right." He cupped Crowley's head in the palm of his hand, pressed it against his cheek, and held it there. "Dear, dear... Yes, you _are_ dear."

Crowley didn't need to think of something to say: it came of itself. "You don't have to explain it to me. If I'd found one of your feathers, down there, I'd have felt just the same way."

"..._Crowley_, dear."

"Yes, Aziraphale. Yes."

A few minutes of silence; then the clock struck eleven. Crowley pooled into Aziraphale's lap (careful not to land on and crease the book there), and crawled onto the empty sofa cushion next to the angel. Two seconds' concentration, and he was in human form again, legs crossed and sunglasses dangling from one hand. "Well," he said with a sigh, "I suppose I'd better head back to my flat."

Aziraphale started. "Oh, but my dear, you're not imposing, please, don't think that! I don't mind at all that there's a second bed up in my bedroom. Surely I've told you that?"

"Yes, but I have to go back. It's been two weeks already, and my landlord might get ideas into his head about breaking off my contract on grounds of prolonged absence and putting a nephew or a girlfriend or something in there, the sneaky bastard. Done it before, you know."

"Oh?"

"Mh. Then there's all the hassle of spooking them out again, and frankly, poor fish like that are hardly worth the trouble of vanquishing. No, best I go."

"Well... All right, if you feel you must."

Crowley put an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. "Hey, don't worry. You can still sit up in your bed and read and not sleep when I'm not there sleeping in mine, too, you know, just the same."

"Not quite the same, dear boy," Aziraphale answered quietly.

"...and, and besides: you don't honestly think you're rid of me yet, do you?"

"I wouldn't want to be."

They got up, Aziraphale accompanied him to the door, and at the door they parted. Aziraphale watched Crowley get in his car and drive off. He waved as the Bentley rounded the corner, then went back in and locked up for the night, glowing inside.

Who ever said there could be no such thing as a brotherly kiss goodnight?


	2. October

_Everyone, look at this! Fanart for Chapter One, by Lunissa!  
__  
lunissa. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5ti8vs_

_Thank you_

_–––_

_October_

_–––_

"Anything happen, angel? You look even cheerier than usual, today."

"Well, Christmas is just a little over two months away, dear. I can hardly wait!"

"Oh, the same rigmarole as every year, then? More sherry?"

"Crowley! How can you say such a thing? It's the celebration of the Birth of Christ!"

"Birth of Christ, yeah... You know, I never understood why you just went with it when the Church pegged the Birth on the twenty-fifth of December, in the middle of winter, while you and I both know it actually took place in the middle of a Palestinian _summer_. It was scorching hot all day, and there you were, toiling in the dirt and sweating like a horse to get that stable up and ready in time. I still don't see why you couldn't have just miracled one and spent the rest of the day lying under a palm tree."

"That wouldn't have been _right_, Crowley, and you _do_ see why. And as I recall, far from lying under a palm tree yourself, _you_ spent all day searching Bethlehem and the surrounding area for an ox and an ass that didn't 'stink to high Heaven', as you put it, which expression, I still can't help but feel, was a touch irreverent..."

"_That_ was only because you wouldn't stop pouting until I finally gave in."

"Of course it was, dear. And I've never stopped feeling grateful for it."

"...well, but my point is: you know when it all _really_ happened, so why do what the Church dictates? They only chose the twenty-fifth of December because that was the birthday of a god who was popular at the time, called," he snapped his fingers, trying to remember, "called..."

"Mithras."

"Right! Right, Mithras, which would make Christmas and with it Christianity easier for pagans to accept _and_ keep all the Christians who attended the pagan feast from doing something they weren't supposed to. It was conversion and orthodoxy politics, nothing more! What's so sacred or special about that?"

"Do try to keep your voice down, dear: the guests and waiters are beginning to notice us."

"Look, what I'm driving at is, why not celebrate Christmas in summer this time, do it properly for once? You'll get a lot more satisfaction out of it that way. It just makes sense!"

"...d'you know, I think there may be something in that."

"'Course there is. So, sherry?"

"Please."


	3. November

_Look, guys! Fanart for Chapter Two!_

_lunissa. deviantart #/ d5tmfaw  
__and  
jean-claude17. deviantart #/ d5tn5tv_

_–––_

_November_

_–––_

"I've been thinking, dear," said Aziraphale, one clear, frosty day on their bench in St James's Park. "About your idea of celebrating Christmas in summer..."

"What about it?" Crowley asked absently, eyes on the one solitary duck circling round and round the pond. Winter never was much fun for pestering those bloody birds.

"Well, supposing I was to follow your suggestion, whom should I invite, do you think? Simple curiosity, you understand."

With a shrug, Crowley answered, "I don't know, I've never been to any Christmas parties, let alone one of yours. What do you usually do?"

"Oh, I usually invite a poor lonely soul to a Christmas dinner and a good talk at a nice little restaurant I know - usually the one, _you_ remember, that gives free desserts on Saturdays - one on every day of the Advent."

"That all? You surprise me."

"And for Christmas Eve, I reserve every seat in that restaurant so that all those people can meet each other. You would be amazed how many friendships and relationships I've seen formed this way," Aziraphale concluded with a proud smile, throwing a bit of bread at the duck.

Crowley grinned. "Well, that certainly sounds typical of you. So why aren't you going to do the same thing this year?"

"I never said I wasn't going to do it, dear: many people stand in dire need of attention and affection, most keenly around the Christmas season, because that's when they fully realise how alone they are."

"I know. Makes them really easy to tempt, too." And when Aziraphale tsked softly, "Well, it does!"

"I am well aware of that, my dear: I always have considerably more thwarting to do towards the end of the year. Now, about that guest list...?"

Crowley pursed his lips. "Weeell, off the top of my head I'd say... Adam, his friends, War, Famine, Pollution, and Death, and maybe include Pestilence too, for old times' sake. Good idea, do you think?"

When he received no answer, Crowley finally looked at Aziraphale and saw the angel staring at him, eyes wide and jaw agape.

"Uh, angel?"

Aziraphale closed his mouth and slowly shook his head, still staring. "Crowley, have you taken leave of your senses? Do you realise what you've just _said_? It's completely ridiculous!"

"You don't have to be like _that_, angel," Crowley answered, sounding hurt. "It was just the first thing that came into my head, that's all."

Aziraphale's eyes softened, and he laid his hand on Crowley's. "I'm sorry, dear, truly. I didn't mean anything wrong; I was just startled that you'd suggest the Horsemen -"

"Horse_persons_, actually."

"Horsepersons, then - as even a possibility. Adam and the other three I'd gladly have, but _those_ people? They were the harbingers of the Apocalypse, and even worse than that, they do nothing but make people suffer. And they like it! How could I possibly invite them to celebrate the coming of the Saviour of the World and Mankind? It's completely contradictory! And now that I think of it, I can't ask Adam Young, the Antichrist, to come to the feast of his mortal enemy. That would be even more absurd than asking the Horsepersons!"

Crowley eyed his flustered companion composedly. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, why?"

"Good, then it's my turn now." Crowley took a deep breath, and began. "First of all, yes, I know you don't particularly care for the Horsepersons, but when you come right down to it, they're only doing the jobs they were literally made for, and they can't help what those jobs are like, can they? And as for the fact that they enjoy their work, I enjoy mine too, but are you going to push me away because of that?"

"No, dear boy, of course not, but it's not the sa-"

"Not on the same _scale_, no, but it's the same principle. They may be completely different in informal settings from when they're working. You of all people ought to know that saying about books and covers."

"Of course I do, but -"

"And why are you saying you can't ask Adam Young? Sure, he's the Antichrist, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon and all that, but you, like me, have seen that he's really poised right smack in the middle between good and evil and Heaven and Hell, so there really isn't any point in fretting over his titles, because titles are all they are. Besides, haven't you often told me that the Christ, while pure and good and everything, wasn't anywhere near as stiff and serious and eternally calm as people always make him out to be? Well, then! Why would he mind any more than Adam? And didn't you like Adam, by the way?"

"I... Ah, yes, that's all true, but..."

"Then it's settled. We're inviting Adam, the rest of the Them, and the Horsepersons. I'd say, take on the other humans involved in the not-Apocalypse as well, but Adam's wiped their memories, mostly, so that'd count as too much messing people about -"

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "'We'?" And I didn't say I was serious or anything like that, it was all just conjecture, I... er..."

He trailed off under the _look_ Crowley gave him. "Angel," said Crowley. "_You_ were the one who brought this up. _You_ asked me for my opinion on a guest list, you actually _called_ it a guest list, you've listened to and agreed with everything I've said, and now, for no reason at all, you'd back out again? Not very angelic, that, angel."

Aziraphale stared for a moment longer; then the light of comprehension suddenly dawned in his eyes and he burst into chuckles. "Oh, you old Serpent!" he said, shaking with mirth. "You've tricked me! For the first time in over three hundred years, you've actually managed to trick me again!"

Crowley gave him a triumphant grin. "Hm, so I did. Do you regret it?"

Aziraphale shook his head, a marvellously bright smile on his face. "Not in the slightest."

"So we have a deal?"

"Yes. Yes, we do. Tea, my dear?"

"Gladly."


	4. December

_Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Three!_

_lunissa. deviantart #/ d5trcx7_

_December_

_–––_

"Hello, whom am I speaking with, please?"

"It's about time you answered the phone!"

"Crowley?"

"Who else? Where have you _been_, Aziraphale? I've been trying to reach you since this morning! Even stopped by a few times, but you weren't there!"

"Well, if you must know, I've been out all day trying to fix the ghastly mess you made last night. What on Earth did you tell those poor people at that AA meeting to send every single one of them on a collective all-night drinking spree?"

"Psh, you think that was _hard_? All it took was for me to fake being a new member of their group, drop a few lines about how good whisky always tasted to me at year-end, provided I wasn't drinking alone, and all thirty-four of them went stampeding off like racehorses. It was glorious."

"But... But even the therapy leader!"

"Those are always the worst of a bad lot."

"You're impossible!"

"You like it."

"I do not!"

"So, dinner?"

"Don't you dare to try and change the subject!"

"Oh, come on, angel. You're not _really_ angry at me, are you?"

"I... You... Just... Oh!"

"The Ritz, then? Or an Italian restaurant? My treat."

"_Why_ won't you listen to me?"

"I'll be there to pick you up in about ten minutes, that all right?"

"_Crowley._"

"Great! I'll be right there. We'll need to discuss who's going to invite who for Christmas, after all. Bye!"

"Wha- Wait! Crowley! Oh, I can't believe this!"

–––

"This fettuccine is absolutely marvellous!" Aziraphale exclaimed, twirling some more pasta ribbons around his fork.

Crowley grinned as he sat lounged in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. "And _you_," he said, leaning forward to tap Aziraphale's cheek, "are absolutely glowing with it. Look at that, all rosied-up."

Aziraphale giggled. "Dear, I do believe we're a bit tipsy."

"Hardly. You're still grammatical."

Aziraphale laid his fork down on his now-empty plate. "Ah, my word, that was delightful. Now then, dear..."

"Yes?"

"You said something on the telephone about the Christmas invitations?"

"Right, right. I was thinking, how about we split things up, each of us taking care of one half of the guest list? No point in one of us having to go through it by himself."

"I hardly think inviting eight or nine people will be such an ordeal, dear."

"Not when it comes to the Them, no, but have you considered the Horsepersons?"

"It was your idea to include them, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but I've been thinking about what you said last month. Four out of five of them - well, three out of five, now that Pestilence is retired - exist to spread misery, and have never even considered going to a social event _for_ the social event. And as for Death, he never goes to any at all..."

"...as he simply wouldn't see any point in it," Aziraphale finished Crowley's sentence, and sighed. "Nor, for that matter, would any of the others. Meaning it will be remarkably difficult to convince them to attend one anyway."

"Exactly. So I think we should each ring up two of the Horsepersons, then see what, if anything, we can do about Death."

"Ring them up? How? We don't have any telephone numbers."

Silently, Crowley reached into his pocket and handed Aziraphale a slip of paper. "They're not demons, but they're still more closely connected to Hell's business than Heaven's. Contact information is easy to come by for me."

Aziraphale looked at the note and bit his lip. "I see. So, whom do I contact?"

"Your choice," said Crowley, sipping his wine.

"I think... I think War and Pollution, the first and third on this list. Then you can have numbers two and four. That seems fair."

Crowley set down his glass. "Done. Do we start next month?"

"Agreed."

–––

"Wait, before you get out, Aziraphale..."

"Yes, dear?"

"Were you... I mean, _are_ you really that exhausted? With that AA-meeting business?" asked Crowley, nervously tapping the steering wheel and looking anywhere but at the angel. "I didn't really mean to cause you that much trouble, or actually I did, but, um..."

Aziraphale smiled. "I _am_ rather tired, yes, but..." He leaned in, and pecked Crowley on the cheek. "I expect nothing less from you, my dear boy. Good night. Sleep well."

It was many minutes before Crowley finally drove away.


	5. January

_Everyone, please have a look at this fanart for Chapter Four:_

_lunissa. deviantart #/ d5tvcdg_

_Thank you_

_–––_

_January_

_–––_

"Hello the Newtrition Corporation Mr Raven Sable's office who is this please."

Three seconds in, and Crowley already regretted having dialled that number without a fortifying swig of wine. "And who might you be, ma'am?"

"Mr Raven Sable's secretary Bernice please state your business or hang up we are busy."

Executive secretaries. Vicious yapping little attack dogs at the best of times, but this was an extreme case. "Tell your boss a friend of his wants to talk to him. Name of A.J. Crowley." Hardly friends, really, what with the botched Apocalypse business, but surely Famine would take a call from him seriously enough to -

"I'm sorry no such name on list of business contacts and boss has no friends is too busy haveniceday."

Clack. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Right. Wine. Now.

–––

The very first thing Famine heard when an exasperated Bernice had come in and, after a brief explanation, handed him the phone, was, "Fire that monstrous goat!"

Famine raised a thin pair of eyebrows. "Beg pardon?"

"I'm serious! Seven times, _seven times_ I've had to dial your number before she finally put me through, the bloody -"

"Hold on," said Sable. "Wait just a second here. Who is this?"

"She didn't even bother to _tell_ you? Why, that... Oh, forget it. It's A.J. Crowley. You remember, from England, that one time?"

"Hmmm..." Famine tapped his nose with one bony finger. "Oh, yeah, I remember you," he said with a razor-thin smile. "The reactionary idiot with the sunglasses and the bulging tub of a friend, right? What the _Hell_," oh, so calmly, making his secretary actually back away, "do you think you're doing, calling me like this?"

No answer.

"_Well?_"

"Firssst of all, sssstickman, if you talk about Asssiraphale like that one more time, I will persssonally come at you through thisss phone. _Come_ at you, do you undersssstand me? And ssssecondly," and Famine held the phone a little distance away from his ear, just to be on the safe side, "although it makesss me sssick to asssk you now," a brief pause, "I'm inviting you to a Christmas party next summer."

Famine blinked. "A Christmas party? Next summer? You serious?"

"Yes, I am serious."

"In _summer_? You said that, right?"

"_Yes._"

"Huh. Odd."

"So, which is it, yes or no?"

"Don't tell me you were expecting a yes," Famine sneered, and his face twisted in disgust. "Me, saying yes to joining a party where people dedicate themselves to stuffing their faces like pigs? With food? _Real_ food? Are you crazy? Me? And with all the work I got?"

"Believe me, I haven't got the slightest desire to see you," Crowley replied coldly, "but all your colleagues will probably be there, so I don't suppose you'd want to be the odd man out. Your choice."

Famine leaned back. "Well, when you put it like that, that does kinda change things a little. I won't pass up a chance to see them again; we meet little enough as it is."

"So you're coming?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

"Then I'll call you back later with the details."

"Fine by me. But just give me one good reason," said Famine, slowly getting up from behind his ultralightweight desk and seeing, from the corner of his eye, his until then merely bewildered secretary flee the room, "why I don't come on over to your party and make all your precious food go up in smoke, just to spite you?"

"I doubt you will," Crowley answered. "Adam will be there too." He hung up.

–––

"Yes? Who is this?" War asked into the phone in her one hand, while the other continued its lazy scribbling.

"Pardon me," said a polite voice on the other side, "am I speaking to Miss, eh, one moment... Miss Carmine Zuigiber, please?"

"Indeed you are," War answered. "If you're from the _National World Weekly_, I can assure you," she threw a careless glance out the window of her second-floor hotel room, and made a note of the fresh casualties, "that my next report is well under way," she finished with a purr in her voice.

"I... have no doubt of that, Miss," said the voice, sounding pained for some reason, "but I'm really calling you concerning a far more... peaceful matter, namely -"

"Peaceful?" War at once dropped her pen and sat up straight, deeply offended. "You're calling me for something _peaceful_?" Around her, the six rebels hiding from the crossfire outside retreated to the corners of the room. She hardly even noticed. "Who are you? What the Hell do you think you're up to? Do you know who I am?"

"All too well, Miss, just as I know precisely _what_ you are."

War stiffened, fingers tightening around the phone. "Excuse me?" she asked, very quietly. The rebels retreated still further.

"Doubtless I am familiar to you as well. My name is Aziraphale, former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden."

"Former guardian of - Ah!" War's features relaxed, and she settled back in her chair with a pleasant smile. The rebels were hiding behind each other now. She didn't care. Why should she? "The original owner of my sword, eh? I remember seeing you in Tadfield that day."

"Ah, yes, quite. Rather a hectic day, that was. The outcome of it was a great disappointment for you and your comrades, of course, but..."

War waved a hand. "Could be worse, looking back on it." She raised her voice over the sound of an explosion outside. "I can't speak for the other two, haven't really seen them since, but I'm back to killing time the way I like till something else happens. Not too bad, I'm having fun. And you? I imagine it's rather boring, being an angel and having to be quiet and nice all the time."

"Well, actually, I've..." The angel on the other side paused, and suddenly broke into, of all things, giggles.

"What?"

"I've just realised something," he said, in between bursts of merriment. "This conversation started like a trite exchange from one of those, what are they called, cop films Crowley so enjoys making fun of -"

"Who?"

"My friend - and now we're positively chatting like two people at a tea party. How curious!"

She laughed, and the room was empty in less than three seconds. She quickly put down six more stripes on her notepad, and asked, "So what did you call for again?"

"Oh! Yes, thank you, I'd almost forgotten. Would you like to come to the Christmas party Crowley and I are organising?"

"Christmas party?" She knit her brows in confusion. "But..."

"Well, I _did_ say it would be a peaceful occasion, but you're quite welcome to join us, that is to say, Crowley, myself, and the other guests."

"Who are they?"

"Oh, only a handful, really. If everything goes according to plan, all your colleagues should be there, as well as the Them, that is to say, Adam and his friends."

War's eyes narrowed. "Including the little boy who banished me?"

"Ah, that would be a little _girl_, actually, and, well, yes. But please," he continued quickly before she could speak, "don't hold it against her. She only did what she felt was right, as nearly all of us do, and it's been nigh six years since then. There really would be no point at all in harming her, and besides, with all due respect... none of us here would let you."

There was, amazingly, a hint of steel in his voice, but War was not one to heed that kind of thing. As such, his words had no effect on her when she said, "Who said anything about harming? I'd just like to meet with her and... discuss a few things."

"Very well," the angel said cautiously. "So you _will_ come?"

"Yes." She kicked her legs up on her desk. "Should be rather relaxing, I think, to start up a good old-fashioned massive street fight in London, too. A change of pace for a day: clubs and fists again, instead of guns and bombs." She grinned. "That takes me back."

"...on Christmas Day?"

She shrugged, even though he couldn't see her. "You don't suppose," she glanced out the window again, "that anyone's ever really cared, do you? You can't possibly be that naïve."

"Actually, I've seen a number of things in that area that would surprise you if you knew them."

She threw that absurdity away. "See you next December then?"

"July or August, actually, probably the latter. We've decided, you see, to adhere a bit more to historical tradition this year, but we still need to work out the exact date."

"You've... What?"

"Not to worry, we're sure to have everything perfectly in order well before summer. I shall ring you again in a few months. Does this suit you?"

War blinked. This was getting stranger and stranger. "Sure."

"Excellent, thank you! Until, oh, probably April then. Goodbye, my girl."

"Goodbye," she answered automatically, and slowly hung up.

Christmas in summer? She was invited? She'd actually said yes? A little girl instead of a boy? Historical tradition? She shook her head to clear it. Nonsense. But... 'My girl'? Odd, she was anything but a young girl, but still, those words hadn't struck her as all that unpleasant. In fact, most of that conversation had been rather enjoyable...

Oh, never mind. She pushed her chair away from her desk, got up, and headed out, notepad in hand. That civil war wouldn't keep itself going, after all, and she still had to finish her report. Work to do, always.

Perhaps it _would_ be nice to take a day off next summer.

–––

"Aziraphale, you know your weight suits you, right?"

"Pardon?"

"It does. Never change."

"Dear."


	6. February

_Everyone, please have a look at this:_

_lunissa. deviantart art/ A-Call-to-War-and-Famine-354690708  
lunissa. deviantart art/ Red-and-black-354697316  
lunissa. deviantart art/ Famine-354697729  
lunissa. deviantart art/ War-354698187_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_February_

_–––_

"A Christmas party? Oh, that sounds absolutely _wonderful_."

Aziraphale blinked. "Pardon? Did I understand you correctly? You'd like it?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Without any convincing? Just like that?"

"Of course," came Pollution's quivery reply. "Just think of all the lovely trash people leave during the holidays, more than at any other time. Haven't you ever seen the streets and squares of a big city after Christmas and New Year's Eve? And the pure white snow, turning to brown and black sludge... One of the most beautiful sights in the world."

"Ah, er, yes, splendid, but we're actually going to have the party in _summer_ this year, not winter."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side. "Oh, marvellous! Summer is even better than winter. Stagnant exhaust fumes and tar haze filling up the still air, carbon monoxide perfume wherever you go, factory smoke drifting on the distant horizon, countless chemicals in the atmosphere turning sunrise and sunset into explosions of colour, a thrown-away cigarette setting an ancient forest on fire... It's all... so beautiful, so lovely..." This was followed by a breathy sigh, and Aziraphale felt a distinct urge to wash his hands.

"That's very, eh, poetic of you," he said, "but I'll contact you again later, rather short on time right now, I'm afraid, goodbye."

"Bye bye," came the faint answer, and Aziraphale hung up. _Well._ That had been... unsettling, but remarkably easy. Good, another guest secured. Now to _scrub_ his hands, wash his face, disinfect that telephone, and stock up on Dettol.

He hoped Crowley wasn't having too many difficulties with Pestilence, either.

–––

"A _Christmas_ party?"

"Yep," said Crowley, at ease on his sofa with one hand behind his head. "And it'll be a good one, too. Interested?" he continued, reaching for his teacup. Things had gone well, so far, Crowley had to admit: two Horsepersons they could be sure of already, so if Aziraphale managed to bag Pollution, and Crowley could -

"No."

Crowley's hand stopped in mid-air. "Sorry?"

"No, no, no, no, _no_. I'm perfectly satisfied where I am, and I haven't got the slightest intention of coming out for you or any man."

This, Crowley felt, would require strategy. "But, Pestilence, you've been poking about in a hut in the Okefenokee Swamp for over seventy years. Don't you think a change of air -"

"A _change_ of _air_!" Pestilence spat. "Oh, yes, that's what they said to all those tuberculosis patients to put them out of my reach!" Oh, brilliant. Pestilence was at _that_ stage, was he? "It's always the same, these days! Modern medicine can do _this_, modern medicine can do _that_, and where is there any place for _me_, hey? I curse the memory of Louis Pasteur! This is all his fault! I was once the scourge of all the lands -"

"No, you were _a_ scourge of all the lands," Crowley cut in. "Remember War and Famine? Your _colleagues_?"

"No, it was _me_ they feared! Me!" cried Pestilence, sounding more and more like a three-year-old in a tantrum. "I have felled kings and crushed nations! Whole peoples have been wiped out because of me!"

"Same as -" Crowley was going to say, 'the other two, then,' but he never got that far.

"And now? Where am I now? Forgotten! Tossed aside! A nobody! Does anyone out there even remember me, anymore? The Spanish flu, that was my last great success, my final moment of true glory. It was a parting symphony, and I was the conductor. And then what happened? Penicillin!"

The last word came out like a cross between a war cry and a malediction. Crowley laced his tea with a shot of whisky, downed it in one gulp, and played the last card he could think of. "But wouldn't you like to see your colleagues again after so long? Have a reunion, sort of? Famine, War, maybe even Death, and of course Poll-"

"_Pollution!_" No, _that_ was the war cry. "That pathetic, wretched, effete -"

"Stop that."

"- usurping, insignificant little upstart! It's all his fault that this has happened to me! I'm stuck here because of him!"

"Well, which is it?" Crowley asked as he leaned his head back, thoroughly fed up. "Pasteur, penicillin, or Pollution? Stop alliterating culprits and make up your mind!"

"All of them! It was all of them!" Pestilence screeched. "They've all worked together to dethrone me! I've reasoned it all out: it was... a conspiracy!"

Terror struck Crowley at this. Desperate to get Pestilence to finally drop the subject, he said, "Pestilence, _will_ you snap out of that wronged-old-man act? First of all, you're not a day older than the rest of us, and secondly, for the last time, you we- _are_ one among equals! Get it through your head!"

"I am _not_ their equal! _I_ have pedigree! War and Famine and _Pollution_ have never been able to touch lords and kings -"

"That's not -"

"But I! I! Even the highest have bowed down before me! Take, for example, my finest hour: the Black Death..."

No.

"...of the fourteenth century!"

Crowley groaned in spirit. No. Not. _Not._ The fourteenth century. _Anything_ but the fourteenth century.

"And I shall tell you all about it, you ignorant brat!"

Crowley did the only thing he could do to preserve his sanity. (Of course, he could have simply laid down the receiver, but that was not the plan he and Aziraphale had agreed on.) He took another swig of whisky, just enough to set his mind floating, lay down on the sofa, and tuned out Pestilence as much as possible, so that only especially loud snippets could still reach him. Good plan.

"- the Princess Joan in Bordeaux, and wrecked -"

Plan.

"- burnt to the ground, and then -"

Did Crowley have plans for tonight? No, he didn't think so.

"- even the Archbishop of Canterbury himself -"

Aziraphale? Yes, that would be nice. Maybe they could go watch a film, if the angel wanted, or rent one.

"- whole third of the population -"

Something relaxing, not too complicated. What was that old dingbat called again? Frank Capra?

"- mass burials, five layers in one hole, and the stench -"

And then there'd be the warmth of soft, plump hands and absolutely hideous, beautiful tartan against his scales. Best thing in the w-

"And can you believe that they thought _snakemeat_ could save them?"

Crowley snapped upright.

"Snakemeat! Honestly now! Theriac, they called it. Most preposterous thing I've ever heard. They'd skin snakes, roast 'em and grind 'em, let them dry for a whole year, and then -"

"_Shut up!_"

Shocked silence on the other side.

"You're coming to the party, Aziraphale or one of the Horsepersons will call you back, and you're to stay thirty feet away from me at all times, is that clear?"

"But I haven't even told you about -"

Crowley slammed down the phone, grabbed his coat, and stalked out of his flat.

–––

"Angel."

"Why, hello there, dear, so nice to see you! How did things go with Pes-"

"Angel, dinner, film, home, now."

"Oh, dear. That bad?"

"Nrgh."

"Well, if you want, dear, you can turn into a snake after dinner and watch the film from inside my collar and scarf. Would you like that? No-one would notice, and you'd be warm that way, and comfortable. Any good?"

"_...yes._"

"Oh, come here, then... Poor dear, there, there..."

"_Angel._"


	7. March

_Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Six:_

_lunissa. deviantart art/ Generation-Gap-354694392_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_March_

_–––_

On a fine, mild day in early spring, a momentous conversation took place in the front garden of a Lower Tadfield home.

"A Christmas party in summer?" the Them chorused, too surprised to even notice they were speaking in unison.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a quick glance, and the former said, "Well, yeah, why not? Do something different for a change, make it unusual."

This, now, was something the Them always liked to hear. Unusual meant exciting, and exciting meant fun. Therefore, Adam spoke for all of them when he said, "Cor! When is it, 'xactly?"

"Well, _that_," said Aziraphale, "is something we haven't really decided yet. You see -"

"It seems a bit inefficient to invite someone to a party when you don't even know yet when it's going to be," said Wensleydale, adjusting his glasses.

"Oh, it's always the same with you!" Pepper told him. "Plan, plan, plan, and no surprises! Can't you let things just happen for once?"

Wensleydale observed her calmly. "I only meant it'd make things simpler if we knew what date to prepare for."

"Actually, that's why -" Aziraphale tried.

"Well, we can discuss it now, can't we?" Pepper retorted.

"Yes, that's precisely what -" Aziraphale tried again.

"I don't have to take a bath, do I?" from Brian.

"That's disgusting," from Wensleydale. And then the three-party quarrel broke out in full.

Crowley was gazing up at the sky and humming a tune, and Aziraphale looked disconsolately at Adam, who gave him a sunny smile. "Jus' wait a bit," he said. "This won't take long."

–––

And so, only a few minutes after, it came to pass that an angel, a demon, the Antichrist, and three humans were sitting in a circle on the fresh young grass, having a highly animated discussion about, firstly, the most historically accurate date for organising a summertime Christmas celebration that would involve all six of them plus the full complement of harbingers of the Apocalypse, and, secondly, since the original topic almost immediately became swamped, about how to properly organise everything connected with said celebration. None of them found this even remotely strange. The conversation went fairly well, all in all, with only a few screaming matches in between, mostly about the clashing parties on the guest list ("I am _not_ coming to a party where that one is!"), and only one interruption by R.P. Tyler after the third and last of these. No other passers-by were even regarded, and so, finally...

"...which leaves only the question of when," said Aziraphale with a sigh.

For the first time in two hours, things became quiet. It hadn't taken them more than ten minutes to decide on the location (roof of Crowley's block of flats, no matter what his neighbours thought of it), nor had they needed more than twenty minutes to agree that August was better than July, as both Aziraphale and Crowley remembered that it had been _quite_ the hottest time of the year, but pinpointing the precise day... That was a different matter.

"Is it really that important?" Crowley asked suddenly, ending the pause. "We're never going to be able to work it out if we sat here till midnight, and it's already a success that we've even found the right month, isn't it? We might as well pick a random day and leave it at that."

"Yes, but, my dear..." Aziraphale began, failing, like Crowley, to notice the significant glances that passed between the Them. "We should at least _try_ and do our best to find it. Think of the symbolic value!"

"We've been trying since half-two o'clock," said Pepper, "and I don't care about symbols. I want a sandwich."

"Me too," said Wensleydale.

"I think Jesus was lucky," said Brian.

There was a general stare. "What?"

"Well, people didn't have to take baths so often back then, did they?"

"Actually," Aziraphale answered, "bathing for the purpose of purification was extremely important among the Jews in those times."

"Aw."

"Can we _concentrate_?" said Crowley. "This isn't -"

"We'll celebrate it the day before my birthday," said Adam, thereby putting a stop to any and all further debates. No-one _could_ speak anymore: they were all too busy gaping.

"What?" asked Wensleydale, when the general paralysis had somewhat receded.

"Are you serious?" asked Pepper.

"Why?" asked everyone.

Adam sat very quiet, staring at the grass in the middle of the circle. "I've a feelin' like... like there's somethin' I can almost remember, but it's too far away..."

"D'you mean," Brian said slowly, "that there's somethin' _you_ can't remember?"

"Yes."

A strange chill passed over the five listeners, and they instinctively edged closer together, the angel, the demon, and the humans. Something terrible and great had just touched them with a finger in passing, and they had no idea what it could be.

"I can't explain it," Adam said, raising eyes that were a few thousand miles or a few thousand years away, "but it has to be on the day before my birthday."

Still no-one spoke or moved. The great and terrible thing was out there somewhere, waiting, all patience and ancience, biding its time, watching them. There was nothing there that they could see, but they dared not look more closely, and so they listened for it, and all around them there was only the too-bright silence. But the thing was there, all the same, and the five of them could barely resist the desire to grab hold of each other for comfort and reassurance. They felt so _small_, alone.

It was impossible to tell how long the spell would have lasted or what they would have eventually done, had not, after only a year-long moment, Mr and Mrs Young arrived home from visiting some friends, and at once demanded to know who those two men were and what they wanted, and what on Earth they were all doing sitting on the grass like that and getting their clothes dirty.

"Er..."

Things went downhill rather quickly from there.


	8. April

_Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Seven:_

_lunissa. deviantart art/ You-don-t-remember-the-danger-358638714?q=gallery%3Alunissa&qo=0_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_April_

_–––_

"I still can't believe what happened last month."

"You mean that... occurrence, dear?"

"No! No, I've... been trying to think of _that_ one as little as possible. It was too strange."

"I agree. I've been doing my best to put it out of my head as well. But still... what _was_ that? Crowley, what do you think?"

"I think we shouldn't worry too much about it. Adam knows it, let him deal with it."

"But he said he didn't know."

"Angel, never _mind_, already. Not our problem."

"I suppose... Now then, what was it you were saying, dear?"

"Well, I meant right after... _that_, when Adam's parents, I mean, adoptive parents -"

"The lad considers them his real parents, you know."

"I know - when they insisted we invite them as well, so they could keep an eye on Adam and make sure he was safe. Which is absurd, of course, it's _Adam_. But how are we supposed to handle that?"

"I take it you're referring to the, ah, general nature of the guest list?"

"Exactly! Look at this: the Antichrist, Famine, Pollution, War, Pestilence, Death, maybe, you, me, and the only three humans who, from Adam, know all about the others and the not-Apocalypse. No problems there, but then we get two more humans thrown in, who know absolutely nothing! Even if we managed to keep everyone's real nature hidden from them, which is _not_ going to happen, let me tell you, how are we going to get them to accept what we're all like? Tell me that."

"Now, now, Crowley dear: I'm certain all will go well. Some of us are rather eccentric by most standards, it's true -"

"I am _not_ eccentric."

"- but really, it's not _that_ bad. Surely now, Mr and Mrs Young won't -"

"You're forgetting something."

"Oh?"

"Adam's parents are among the most steady and conservative people on the planet. It doesn't take all that much eccentricity, as you call it, to set them off. What then?"

"Um..."

"That's my point."

"Well, well, it'll be all right, dear, really. If nothing else, it will be one of the more colourful Christmas parties in history, to be certain."

"Yeah... Yeah, I suppose that's right. At least it will be memorable, eh?"

"Precisely, dear."

"Good night then, angel. Thanks."

"Think nothing of it, dear. Good night."

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"You _sure_ you don't mind having that second bed in here? Or those extra pairs of pyjamas?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I'm sure, dear boy. Good night, now."

"Yeah, good night." And Crowley slept.

–––

"Who is this?" asked War.

"Ah, good morning, my girl."

The angel again. Wonderful, that was all she needed. "It's the middle of the night here."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Would you like me to ring again later?"

"No, it's fine. What do you want?"

"Is... something the matter?"

"No."

"I'll... be brief, then," the angel continued hesitantly. "About that Christmas party I mentioned to you earlier -"

"Well?"

"I was wondering if perhaps you would have the kindness to -"

"Oh, say it!" she burst out. She could have slapped his face off, blast him. Why did he have to be so, so... _nice_, and to her, too! "Say what you have to say about that stupid party and then get out of my hair! Now is _not_ the time for drivel like yours!"

"..."

"You won't talk? Fine."

"No no, wait! I was only going to ask you if you could buy the Christmas decorations for us. We thought it would be a good idea to involve you a bit, you see, and -"

"When and where?"

"Eh?"

"The _party_, you -"

"The 30th of August, 7 Adam's Row, Mayfair." On the verge of tears, oh, _brilliant_, he was on the verge of tears.

"Fine. Bye."

"Goodb-"

She snapped her cellphone shut and shoved it in her pocket. A few seconds of blank staring into space, and she looked down at the small child beside her, staring up at her with a mixture of terror and adoration. She'd snatched him up and run with him out of the range of a grenade about to explode, and she'd be damned twice over before she'd understand why. And right now, she didn't know who she hated most: the boy, herself, or that _angel_ for being nice to her.

The boy tugged at her hand. "Señora?"

She grabbed his arm, dragged him the rest of the way to the rebel quarter she'd been carrying him towards before she'd come to her senses, and shoved him at the man standing guard. "They'll take care of you here," she told him in Spanish. "Now get out of my sight."

The boy ran forward, and the man, utterly bewildered, took him in. War didn't stay to see more.

Back in her room at the hotel, practically the only building still standing in that section of the city, she wondered whether she ought to phone the angel back, to apologise. Then she threw open her window and screamed.

–––

At 2:30 a.m. in New York City, the phone rang in Famine's penthouse of the barely-there furniture. He picked it up and heard, with no preliminaries, "Famine, about that party."

"Who -"

"Crowley. The Christmas party, remember? I said I'd call you back."

"Oh, yeah, right, that," Famine answered. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Do you know what time it is over here?"

"Do I care? I still haven't forgotten last time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Forget it. Didn't expect you to remember. Anyway, for the party, you're in charge of catering, like it or not."

Famine really, really hoped he hadn't just heard that. Had to be sure, though. "Tell me you're lying."

"Don't look at me, it was the angel's idea. He thought it'd be splendid to have everyone do their own share and make them feel they'd contributed something. I don't really agree, but there it is, and you're in charge of food. Again, the angel's idea."

Okaaay. It would never _not_ be too late or too early in the day for something like this. On the other hand...

"And I know what you're thinking, and no. We've discussed it, and you are not, _not_, under any circumstances, to try and feed us any of that revolting trash you sell. Frankly, we'd all rather eat mud, so we expect you to go to a _decent_ caterer's and order _normal_ amounts, that clear so far?"

"Is. That. So. Then you can just count me out of the whole thing and have your bloated little friend take care of the food. I'm sure he'll do a stellar job, supposing he doesn't go and shove it all down himself. _That_ clear so far?"

There was a brief pause on the other side. Then, "I told you last time," said Crowley, in a voice so carefully controlled it was almost eerie, "that if you talked about Aziraphale like that again, I'd come at you. But I won't. Do you know why?"

"Do I care?"

"You should, but you don't. It's because it's not worth it. _You're_ not worth it."

The mocking smile Famine had on started to slip. "Say what?"

"I said," Crowley repeated with even more emphasis, "_you're_ not worth it. The only reason you keep taking these pathetic, childish jabs at Aziraphale is because you're jealous of him. Of me. Us."

"Whoa there, wait just a damn minute! Jealous? Me? Why? Because you, for some weird reason, feel the need to defend that unsightly -"

"Leave him alone," Crowley said quietly, and the last word clicked in Famine's throat. "Throw your petty little envy at me as much as you want, I don't give a toss, but leave my angel alone."

"But -"

"And as to why I defend him, well, Famine," Crowley continued, pleasantly arctic, "if you'd ever cared for anyone and they'd ever cared for you, you wouldn't need to wonder." He broke the connection.

Famine was still awake when the sun rose in the morning. Burning-eyed, but unable to sleep.

–––

The next night, for the first time, Aziraphale and Crowley held each other as they slept.


	9. May

_Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Eight!_

_lunissa. deviantart art/ All-the-fools-ways-359911815?q=gallery%3Alunissa&qo=2_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_May_

_–––_

"I'm sorry, all right, I'm really, really sorry! There, satisfied?"

"I... Pardon? Miss Zuigiber, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me, and I absolutely hate this. See what you've made me do?"

"What?"

"No, never mind, I take that back. Argh!"

"Calm down, poor thing, you sound as worked up as you can possibly be. Whatever is the matter?"

"I'm... Oh, curse it... I'm sorry I yelled at you last time. There, I've said it."

"That's very sweet of you, my girl." (He wasn't saying that, War was not hearing this, she was _not_.) "But really, it's quite all right. I was a bit upset, perhaps, but that's nothing you need to feel bad about or apologise for. Really, it's nothing. But still, very sweet." (Oh, Hell, he sounded all _glowy_. Why did he have to _be_ that way with her?)

"You'll get those decorations, by the way." (Change the subject, she _had_ to change the subject.) "I'll fix it somehow."

"You remember!"

"Yes, I remember. I need to be going now."

"All right. Good-"

"Say, do you know anything about what a good orphanage should look like?"

"Orphanage?"

"No, never mind. Bye."

"Goodbye, my girl."

He hung up, and for the first time in her life, War felt the need to sit down.

–––

"Pollution, old boy!"

"Oh... Hello, there. Crowley, was it?"

"Yes, exactly. So! Still planning to come to our Christmas party in a few months?"

"Mmm, of course. A big city in the middle of summer... Just think of all the wonderful things I can do there. I look forward to it. So much..." he breathed.

"Great, great, but listen. We'd all really appreciate it if you could _not_ turn my roof into a toxic dump for a day. We'd like to be able to go home with our lungs and other internal bits intact, as I'm sure you understand."

"But... But it'd be so _beautiful_," said Pollution, managing to sound pouty, blubbery, and _oozy_ at the same time. Crowley cringed.

"I'll tell you what. The street's broken up behind my flat, so you can have your fun there, if you must. Dump it full of oil or whatever. But no nuclear waste."

"No nuclear waste?"

"_No_ nuclear waste."

"Oh... Well, okay, if you insist..."

"Splendid! By the way, would you mind ringing up Pestilence and asking if he's coming? We're still not sure about him, you see."

"Pestilence? I haven't seen him since I took over for him, back in '36. He didn't seem very happy, back then. But I guess I could try..."

"Good, that's settled then! We'll see you in a few months. Ask War about the details."

"Okay. Bye bye, Crowley."

"Yeah, bye." Crowley laid down the phone, and turned to Aziraphale. "You were right. That _was_ unsettling."

Aziraphale nodded. "I've already drawn you a bath. I thought you might need it."

"I do, thanks. Hey, Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Do you really think it was a good idea to have Pollution call that guy?"

"I don't think it will be a problem, at any rate, dear. Pollution is far too... too..."

"Divorced from reality? Perpetually spaced-out on his own produce? Nuts?"

"I'm not entirely certain I understood all of that, but I do believe the answer is yes in all three cases."

"Ha!"

"Do run along now, dear: your bath water is getting cold."

"Yes, Mummy."

"Oh, shoo!"

–––

"Crowley, if this is you and you're calling about that party again -"

"Oh, it's not Crowley," answered Pestilence's number one most hated voice in the world. "It's Pollution."

For several seconds, Pestilence was too busy suffocating with sudden rage to be able to reply. When he overcame this, the result was a stream of increasingly creative invective that would have stunned a sailor. It went on for more than ten minutes, and ended with a triumphant, "And how do you like _that_?"

"Mmmh? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. What were you saying, exactly?"

Pestilence could practically _feel_ his face turn green from its usual yellow. "You... _You..._"

"Myes?"

"You... You impossible, arrogant, brainless, shiftless, worthless, insolent _gutterspawn_! Who or what in Creation do you think you are, other than the most utter revolting _waste_ of sentience that's ever walked the Earth? Who gave you the right, you miserable slime bucket, to put yourself above me like that?"

"I'm not putting myself above anybody," Pollution drawled, perfectly unfazed. "I only called to ask whether you were coming next August. The 30th, 7 Adam's Row, War told me; she was a bit chattier than usual, I think. I'm going, you see, and I think it will be, oh, _magnificent_," he said, with as much emphasis as it was in him to use.

Which, in Pestilence's opinion, was none. "Oh, I will come, all right," he said, oh so gently. "I will come, boy, and then you'll rue the day you ever dared to try and fill my shoes. Prepare yourself for that."

"I wonder if there'll be liquorice," Pollution said pensively. "I rather like liquorice: it looks like drops and strings of oil." A pause. "Do you like liquorice?"

Pestilence crushed the receiver against the wall, took hold of the telephone cord with both hands, snapped it, and threw the phone out the window and into a quicksand pool, where it immediately sank out of sight forever. It felt rather therapeutic doing that, in its way. Pestilence wouldn't miss the telephone: his only regret was that it hadn't been Pollution himself, instead. But a few months from now, if he was lucky, that might change.


	10. June

_Everyone, look! Fanart for Chapter Nine!_

_lunissa. deviantart art /May-we-be-362986030_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_June_

_–––_

Aziraphale was just putting the finishing touches on what he personally felt was an outstandingly fine tea table, when Death appeared directly in front of him. Aziraphale gave a yelp and nearly dropped his teapot. "Oh! Good _gracious_, you scared me, popping in like that!"

FEAR IS A REACTION I AM QUITE USED TO RECEIVING, Death replied.

"No, no, that's not the kind of fear I meant," said Aziraphale, trying to sound conciliatory. "I was simply startled at seeing you stand before me like that all of a sudden. Now then, what was -"

YOU HAD NO REASON TO BE.

"To be what?"

STARTLED. I AM EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME.

"Yes, but... Hold on, we're getting completely sidetracked. Why are you here, may I ask?" said Aziraphale, setting his teapot down on the table and resisting his still-tingling nerves' desire to begin rearranging everything there.

ER, said Death.

Aziraphale turned round to face him again, hands in his sides and the beginnings of annoyance in his mind. "Now, now, surely you can't have come here for no reason. Out with it, if you please."

I HAVE HEARD SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR INTENTION TO ORGANISE A CHRISTMAS PARTY A FEW MONTHS FROM NOW. I WOULD LIKE TO ATTEND.

"Oh..." Aziraphale bit his lip. "In that case, I'm very sorry I was so rude to you just now. Crowley and I have been racking our brains for months now to work out how to contact you directly, and here you are yourself! Fancy that!"

YES.

The conversation, such as it was, flagged a bit.

"Er..." said Aziraphale. "Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?"

VERY KIND, BUT NO, THANK YOU.

"Then do you need more information about when and where the party will take place? Or about the guest list?"

I NEED NONE. AS I SAID, I AM EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME. IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF WHERE I CHOOSE TO LET MYSELF BE SEEN. UNTIL THEN, GOODBYE.

"Goodbye," Aziraphale said uncertainly as Death turned to go. Then he started forward. "No, wait! Azrael!"

Death stood still at once. YES?

Aziraphale reached out a hand towards him, then drew it back. He looked down. "I can't help but wonder... What is the reason you wish to attend the party? Not that I'm not glad, mind, because I truly am, it's just..."

IT'S SIMPLE, said Death, and turned around. YESHUA HA-NOTSRI IS THE ONLY HUMAN BEING I'VE EVER KNOWN WHO GREETED ME WITHOUT THE LEAST BIT OF FEAR OR UNCERTAINTY, BUT AS SOMEONE HE KNEW AND TRUSTED. I CANNOT FORGET THAT. I HAVE BEEN WAITING NEARLY TWO THOUSAND YEARS FOR THE PROPER CHANCE TO PAY MY RESPECTS.

There was silence for a space. Then Aziraphale raised his head, and said slowly, "I think... I think that a great many of us, including myself, all too often forget that you, Azrael, are an angel as well."

TRUE. BUT DO YOU KNOW IT NOW?

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I do."

THEN I THANK YOU, BROTHER. And Death was gone.

When Crowley came in for tea, not five minutes later, he found Aziraphale in tears. For the rest of that day and the following night, Crowley never once left his side.

–––

Ring ring. Ring ring. "Mmmh... What on... Oh, this had better be good." Beep. "Hello?"

"Hello, Scarlet?"

"Wh- Sable, is that you?" Now where had her bottle of water got to?

"Uh, yeah... Listen, can we talk?"

War took a few seconds and a drink of water to process this. Then she groaned and flopped sideways into her pillow. "Sable, it's four a.m. here! Aren't you supposed to be in the same time zone as I am? What are you doing up?"

"Four a.m.? Sorry, didn't know. Haven't slept in days."

War raised her head a fraction. "I knew you were a workaholic," she said, "but this is ridiculous. What are you trying to do, make yourself drop?"

"Well, suppose I did... drop, I mean... would you care?"

"Don't be stupid," said War. She sat up and swept her hair behind her back. "There's no point in asking a question when you already know the answer. Now you had better give me an _incredibly_ good reason for waking me up this early. I don't care if _you_ can't sleep, that's no excuse to -"

"I should have known, I guess. I did know."

"Know what?"

"That you wouldn't care if anything happened to me. He was right, the son of a gun, he was _right_..."

"...Sable?"

"Nah, nothing, forget it, just... forget it. I'll let you go back to sleep now. Forget I called."

"Sable, wait! Ow! Dammit!" She kicked off the sheets tangled around her legs and scrambled out of bed.

"Yeah? What? What do you want?"

"_Me?_" She was standing in the middle of the room now, hand in her side and eyes blazing. "_You're_ the one who went and decided to tear me out of my sleep so you could babble about nothing at all, and now _you_ want to take it out on _me_? You're not serious!"

"I said forget it!" Famine snapped. "There's no point in talking any more. Just like there was no point in asking you if you gave a damn about me. I shouldn't have bothered at all."

"No, you shouldn't have, you absolute moron," shouted War, "because you know that I do!"

Famine didn't answer, but there was no click of a broken connection, either. War walked over to the open window, and stood staring out over the slowly awakening city. Dawn was coming, pink and orange, and there was a big early butterfly sitting on a leaf on the branch by her windowsill. It was pretty, but it flew away when she tried to touch it. A shame.

"...really?" she heard Famine ask. "You're... You're not just saying that, are you?"

War rolled her eyes. "No, Sable, I'm not just saying that. We've known each other for six thousand years, of course I care about you. I like you." And in a rush of surprise, she realised that she meant it.

"Scarlet... Scarlet, that's -"

"And just so you know, I'm going to punch you in the face for waking me up, the next time I see you. And if you don't get some sleep yourself right now, I'll punch you again."

"That's good to hear. It really is. And I'll do that. I think I might be able to, now."

"By the way, I'll be arriving at Heathrow on the fifteenth of next month. Some things I need to take care of in London. When will you be there? Pollution is due on the twenty-fifth, he said."

"Me? Same day as you."

"You've decided that just now, haven't you."

"Well, uh... I..."

"Good _night_, Famine." Or what was left of it, at least.

"Yeah, you too. And good luck on your civil war."

Her eye twitched. "Thanks. I'll be seeing you."

"See you soon. And Scarlet?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." He hung up.

Drained and heavy-eyed, War crept back in bed, pulled the sheets over her, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Even the considerable noise of rebuilding that started up outside shortly after, as it had been doing every morning for weeks now, couldn't make her stir.

–––

"Adam?"

"Yes, Pep?"

"D'you know yet what you couldn't remember?"

"You mean at the start of spring?"

"Yes."

"No."

"You're sure? I wish you could: me and the others can't get it out of our heads, what happened that day."

"You're scared?"

"I am not _scared_! I'm just curious!"

"That's good. I'll need all the support I can get, from you an' everyone."

"...why?"

"Because _I'm_ scared."

"..."

"Pep?"

"..."

"Pep? Pepper? Are you okay? You've gone all glassy! Pep? Say something!"

"_Oh my G-_ I mean, _Holy_ - I mean, _what_?"

"I'm scared."

"But... But you _can't_ be scared! Of anything! You're _Adam_!"

"I'm not scared of anythin' bad happening, Pep. I'm scared of something _big_."

"Big like what?"

"Like I said, I don't know. But..."

"But...?"

"It's like... like there's someone waiting for me."

"Who?"

"I don't know yet, and they don't either, but they're waiting."

"I don't get it."

"Well... Look, up there. What d'you see?"

"Um... Blue sky, some clouds, early stars... Why?"

"It's up there."

"_What is?_"

"Or at least it will be."

"You're crackers today, Adam."

"I could do with some, too, I think. How about ice-cream afterwards?"

"Okay."


	11. July

_Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Ten, by Lunissa on deviantArt:_

_lunissa. deviantart art/ You-know-it-now-381470682_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_July_

_–––_

Thomas Miller, salesman at one of the largest party-goods shops in London, was being confronted with a situation that no amount of training could have possibly prepared him for: an insane customer.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Er... Pardon me, could you repeat that?"

The woman heaved an exasperated sigh. "I _said_, I want fifty yards of multi-coloured Christmas bunting, one hundred baubles, twenty red, twenty black, twenty white," she ticked off the colours on her fingers, "twenty yellow, and twenty grey, two dozen green streamers, six light, six dark, and two big sacks filled with every kind of fireworks you have. Now go get what I ask for, and don't make me repeat myself again," she finished, irritably tapping her nails on the counter.

Thomas stared at the woman, and saw that she was completely serious. "Madam, you do realise it's _summer_, yes?"

"Your point?"

Yep, loony.

Unfortunately for him, Thomas was neither a very bright nor an intrinsically polite man. As such, he abruptly burst out laughing. (Sure, he'd have been in big trouble in anyone'd heard that, but anyway it was the slack season and his boss wasn't even in right now and besides, he didn't really like his job all that much, so who cared?) His eyes were shut tight as he laughed, so he couldn't see the way War's eyes _sparked_. "What," she said, straining herself to the utmost to sound calm, "is so funny?"

Thomas, by now, was leaning on the counter and gasping for breath. "Come on, Madam, you're not serious, are you? No-one buys Christmas stuff in summer, that's absurd! You, heh, you might as well ask for a barrel of snow and a giant pine tree to go with all the rest!"

"We don't _need_ a pine tree, we already have a _palm_ tree," War said through gritted teeth, her nails drawing scratches on the counter's wooden top. "It's more authentic that way, he told me so last week."

"More authentic!" Thomas doubled over again. "What, no chubby rosy angel for your, pffft, palm tree?"

"We already _have_ one of those! And that's none of your business, I _can't_ let him down! Now stop wittering and _give me what I want_."

('All right, that's enough tosh from her.') "Even if, with your behaviour, I was still inclined to do that, _Madam_," ('Oh, little man, you are _dead_.') "we simply do not have Christmas decorations available at this time of year. No-one buys them, so we don't stock them."

"So you have nothing?"

"Well, I _suppose_ we may still have some few leftovers from last year in the storeroom, but -"

She tossed her head in contempt. "I don't want leftovers, you bloody idiot, I want what's on this list!" She shook it in his face, then slammed it down hard in front of him. "This is your last chance! Either find _everything_ exactly as I've ordered it and deliver it to 7 Adam's Row, Mayfair, in under two days, or -"

('_Damn_ you, you hellcat.') "Madam, I cannot help you, and that's final! Besides, even if we were stupid enough to actually waste time and money in buying Christmas goods at this time of year just for you, black and grey baubles, like you seem to want, would be practically impossible to come by, assuming they even _exist_, and -"

_Now _War had had enough. With the speed of a striking cat - Thomas had been right, thinking that - she grabbed hold of his shirt and jerked him forward, nearly knocking their foreheads together. "Or you," she hissed, "will be a _bloody_ idiot in ways you can't even begin to imagine. My patience is limited, you grub, _very_ limited, and you've rasped it nearly all away. Now give. Me." She gave him a shake. "What. I. Want."

Then, right then, Thomas did see something in her eyes. He had, finally, a sensible reaction. The only possible one. "Yes ma'am right away ma'am," he said. Then he fainted, and War slapped her forehead and groaned.

–––

Nigel, the caterer's assistant, nearly dropped his pen. "I... Pardon me, sir," he said to the depressed-looking and, frankly, alarmingly thin man in front of him. "You want to order _what_?"

The man heaved a heavy sigh, and said, his every accent dripping with revulsion, "I want two gallons of creamy pumpkin soup, four overstuffed roast turkeys, the biggest you got, with matching amounts of baked potatoes and gravy, four big Dundee cakes, original recipe, and a dozen bottles of Beau- No, wait, I forget who I'm gonna be dealing with." He wiped his brow. "Make that three bottles of Beaujolais, three bottles of Sauternes, three Cabernet Sauvignon, and three Shiraz. I want prime vintages. And get me a bucket while you're at it: I think I'm about to throw up."

Nigel quickly gave the man a chair. "Now, sir, please, calm down. I'll just have this list..." He took it from the man's hand, and found that the paper was actually slightly damp with sweat. He felt a thrill of honest indignation. It was positively scandalous, the way some people thought it was a good idea to confront an anorexic patient, as this man clearly was, with as much food as possible. Shock therapy, _right_. The sooner this poor blighter could get out of here, the better. Therefore, Nigel patted him on the shoulder and said, "I'll see to it that everything will be delivered as requested. Where would you like it to go?"

"7 Adam's Row, Mayfair, August 30th, seven p.m. sharp. Charge it to Raven Sable. Oh, and add in some ship's bread and dried herring. I just _know_ they won't let me get away with eating nothing."

"Now, now, sir, a little at a time will save you. That's how it goes."

The man looked up blankly. "Save me from what?"

Ah. Nigel decided to back out. No going up against denial, and it wasn't _really_ his problem anyway. He decided to briefly change the topic, then show the customer out. "Well, well, your friends will have quite a party, eh?"

"Not doing this for friends, plural," the man said as he got up. "Just for one. A lady friend of mine."

And then Nigel really did drop his pen, and his clipboard too. "Good God, sir," he couldn't help exclaiming, "she must be the size of a house!"

The man froze in mid-step. "What?" he asked. "_What_ did you call her?"

"Er... I'm sorry, that was rather impolite of me..."

"Impolite!" The man turned half around, eyes and face stone cold. "That," he said softly, "was not impolite. That was the most outrageous insult on the face of the Earth. And you said that about her? About _her_?"

Nigel's back hit the counter. "S-sir, I -"

"Deliver the goods," said the man, straightening his jacket. "After that... Well. You'll see. Oh, man, will you ever see. You _and_ your company." He walked out just like that, and Nigel sat down. Now it was his turn to long for a bucket, it seemed.

–––

"Aziraphale, can I stay with you again tonight?"

"Certainly, dear. What's the occasion this time?"

"Well, it's just that I've already tidied up my flat for next month and I want it to stay that way, so..."

"A whole month in advance?"

"Er..."

"And your flat is never the least bit untidy in the first place."

"That -"

"_That_, Crowley, is the most transparent excuse to stay with me that I have ever heard you use! Really now, you can do better than that!"

"...oh. Oh, so then... You'd rather I leave? All right, I'll... just go find another place to sleep, then..."

"Oh, you old Serpent... You should know by now that such tricks have never worked on me." And Aziraphale held out his arms.

–––

"Did you know that you have incredibly soft sweaters?"

"Oh, yes. And given how you're holding on to me, you know it too," said Aziraphale, with his head on Crowley's shoulder.

"Angel?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Did you trick _me_, just now?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"It worked," said Crowley, and Aziraphale laughed in delight.

–––

"Aziraphale, before you fall asleep..."

"Mmm?"

"It's... I've been wanting to ask you this for a long time now, but..."

"Yes, dear, I'm listening. Please, go on."

"I was wondering, are you... Are you my angel?"

"Are you my demon, dear?"

"Yes."

"Then I say yes, too. Always. My dear, _dear_ boy..."

"_...angel._"


	12. August

_Well, that's it, guys: the twelfth and final chapter of _Anno Domini_._

_Once again, I'd like to thank all of you for taking the time to read this story. You guys_ rock_. Special thanks, of course, go to Jean-Claude17 (on dA), not only for awesome fanart, but also for requesting that I write a Christmas story in the first place, and to Lunissa (also on dA), pretty much my official illustrator, for _her_ awesome fanart and for bringing the second part of the soundtrack (linked on profile page) to my attention, and both of them for nigh-interminable, fascinating conversations and equally fascinating weirdness. I say it again, I love you guys._

_–––_

_August_

_–––_

_30th of the month, 2007_

War and Famine were the first guests to arrive that day, at about two o'clock in the afternoon. They met in the ground floor hallway.

"Hullo, Sable!"

"Hey, Scarlet."

"So, are you looking forward to it?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

She clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, come on!" she said. "You've had months to get used to the idea of coming here. Cheer up!"

"I'll try, okay? It's the idea of the _food_ that's really bugging me."

"Weren't you the one who ordered it?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Please don't make me think about that."

"Sensitive subject?"

"You have no idea."

"Fair enough. So, I see your eye's healed quite nicely since the last time I saw you. There are hardly any traces left."

"Yeah, an icepack for fifteen minutes every hour really did work wonders. Good tip you gave me."

"Well, I do have some experience."

"I'll bet. Kind of weird, now that I think of it, how we kept on missing out on meeting each other since we got to London, till last week. Hell, I didn't even catch you at the airport."

She shrugged. "You know how plans can go wrong. By the way, Sable, speaking of plans, I've been meaning to ask: _did_ you get some extra sleep after you'd woken me up that morning?"

"Huh? No, I... needed some extra time to think about what you'd said to me, so I didn't really sleep till the next day. Why?"

–––

"Hello, Aziraphale."

"Ah, good afternoon, my girl!" Aziraphale said, and bustled over to her to grab and shake her hand. "I'm so glad you could make it. Did you have a safe journey here?"

"Boring. Not even a terrorist attack on the plane."

"I... see..."

"Not for lack of trying on my part, mind you, but even I can't get anything going when there's only little old ladies on board. Although..."

"The decorations you've had delivered here are really very nice," Aziraphale said hurriedly. "The bunting is hanging all around the sides of the roof. It was just the right length for it, too. Crowley and I spent all day yesterday getting it in place, but the result is quite admirable, I think."

War had moved over to the big palm tree standing in a pot in the middle of the roof, and was surveying it critically. "This thing is _huge_," she said. "At least fifteen feet!" How did you get it up here? Hire a crane?"

"Actually, no. Crowley bought a nice little baby palm tree something under a month ago, carried it up here, and then did what he does best. It was truly remarkable: one could almost _hear_ it growing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but my compliments to your friend all the same. The baubles look good up there in the fronds."

"Speaking of Crowley, where's he got to?"

"Oh, he's in his flat with Famine, to give him ice."

"Ice?"

–––

Crowley whistled between his teeth. "Whoo-eee, Famine, that is one amazing black eye you have there. Fresh, too, eh?"

Famine glared at him. "Just hand it over."

Crowley gave him the icepack, and watched Famine wince as he held it to his face. "You sure you wouldn't rather have a raw steak for that?" Crowley asked. "Or would you prefer it well-done in onion sauce?"

"Shut. Up."

–––

At around four p.m., the Them arrived with Mr and Mrs Young. The former were, of course, instantly acclimatised to the sweltering dry heat up on the tar-covered roof - which was part of the reason why it was all that Adam, Brian, and Wensleydale on the one hand and Famine and Aziraphale on the other could do to keep Pepper and War, respectively, from flying into an all-out cat fight - but Mr and Mrs Young had had to immediately seek shelter under the tree, where Mrs Young, to Crowley's horror, had cornered him, out of the blue, into a lecture on proper behaviour.

"Now, young man, you understand this is nothing at all personal, but I really feel I must say -"

"Ma'am, can this wait, I have to -"

"You're rather the flash type to look at, you see, and we have to be certain you know how to conduct yourself around young ladies."

"_What?_"

"You see, we've promised Pepper's parents that we would take very good care of her today, so no taking saucy liberties, young man."

"_Excuse me?_ Just what kind of -"

"Oh, what's Adam doing now? Stop that at once, young man!"

"Can't, Mum! She's - Owch!"

"Adam Young!"

"He's holding her down, and a good job too! Aziraphale! Her arms, grab W- Red's arms!"

"Dear, would you please get over here and _help_ instead of shouting?"

"Look, Mrs Young, I really have to - Oh, hang it all! Aziraphale!" He sped off.

"'Dear'?" said Mrs Young. "Did he just call the other one...?"

Mr Young took his pipe out of his mouth and said pensively, "Deirdre, I think we may have made something of a mistake coming here. Christmas in August is bad enough, but then such strange goings-on on top of the bargain? No, no, not very British. Can't be right at all." He took a puff.

"And to think the plump blond one had such a nice accent," Mrs Young said sadly, but her husband could hardly hear her over the escalating din.

"Ow! All right, that does it!" said Crowley. "Aziraphale, get me that garden hose!"

"_What?_" War and Pepper shouted.

–––

At a quarter past five, when the big table had just been set, canopy and all, for the food that was to arrive shortly, Pollution banged open the rooftop door, looked wildly around, made a dash for the table and dove underneath it before anyone had had the chance to do anything but look stupefied. Aziraphale knelt down and lifted up the tablecloth. "Pollution? What are you doing under there?" he asked.

"Hold him back!" Pollution's voice was a terrified squeak, all his usual easy indolence ripped from it. "He's crazy! He said he was going to beat me to death with a - Eek!" He jerked the tablecloth back down just as Pestilence, yellow-robed, yellow-faced, and wheezing like a pair of worn-out bellows, staggered through the door himself.

"All... right, where's that... little sewer rat gone? Ah, over there, eh?" he said when everyone started grouping together in front of the table (except for Mr and Mrs Young, who were still in the stupefied stage, and for Pepper and War, who couldn't get up).

"Stand aside, all of you! I have a Christmas present for the maggot!" He swished the leather straps through the air, grinning maniacally. "Genuine fourteenth-century flagellant's lash, good as new!" ("Oh, I _know_ what it is," Crowley muttered, but only Aziraphale heard him.) "Bring him out, and he shall have it! I've been waiting for this for _decades_, ha!"

There was a whimper from under the table. Even without that, however, the situation would have been the same. Everyone just stood there, in every mixture of defiance, disgust, and disdain, staring at him without a word, while Pestilence's raised arm dropped lower and lower. "But... But..." he said. Then he rallied. "But don't you lot understand? I want my place back, I want my _life_ back! That worm," he snapped an arm out towards the table, and the ranks grew more serried, "is all that stands between me and the rebirth of my glory, and you'd _stop_ me? Come on, let me _kill_ the helpless little fool! It'll be easy, it's not like he can even defend himself! Have you no mercy? Have you no heart?"

Their silence crashed down on him like the moment before a stone slide. Famine was the one who gave the first push. "You," he said, pointing at Pestilence, "just made the biggest mistake of your life, pal."

"But -"

"You would ask us for mercy?" asked Aziraphale, eyes the blue cold of glaciers. "You would ask us for compassion? You would _dare_?"

"You make me _sick_," said Pepper.

"Bu-"

"Untie me!" snarled War. "I know exactly how to teach that one a lesson!"

"Wha- No! No, you can't do this! I'm _Pestilence_! Don't you see, I'm worth more than him! I'm _better_ than him! Don't you _see_?"

"You idiot," Crowley said contemptuously from behind War's chair. "Haven't you ever heard of human beings' sympathy for the underdog?" In one move, he undid War's ropes, and the avalanche...

"Me too!" shouted Pepper, straining against the cords that held her.

...came _down_.

–––

"Well, kid, that was quite a sight, eh?" Famine said to Pollution. "It only took five minutes, but _damn_, those two girls."

Pollution nodded happily. "I'm safe now! He can't get at me anymore!" He faltered. "...right?"

Famine glanced over at the palm tree. "Beaten like bread dough, trussed up like a turkey, and tied upside down to a tree trunk? I doubt he's gonna be moving any time soon."

Pollution sniggered.

"What?"

"You just used a food metaphor. Twice."

"...no, I didn't."

"Do you want some liquorice?" Pollution asked, dug into his pocket, and held up a few black strings in one greasy white hand.

–––

At seven, the food arrived, just as ordered. At seven forty-nine, half of it was gone, and Famine was the only one still seated upright. "I seriously can't believe what I just saw. How could you people possibly eat more than one bite each?"

"Famine," said Crowley, the only one besides Famine who hadn't passed beyond speech, lying on the ground next to his chair, "we need to teach you about proportions, _fast_."

"What proportions?"

–––

At twenty minutes past nine o'clock, Mrs Young nearly had a heart attack when Death popped up next to her. She told him so, even though her eyes kept going unfocused when she tried to look at him.

NONSENSE, MADAM. I ASSURE YOU, YOU AREN'T DUE FOR ANYTHING LIKE THAT FOR QUITE SOME TIME.

"Azrael, please do stop alarming the poor woman," Aziraphale said from beside him. "Would you like some tea this time?"

Death took a look at the colourful company standing and sitting all around. Adam waved at him. I DON'T SEE WHY NOT, Death said. I MIGHT AS WELL TRY TO FIT IN.

Aziraphale beamed up at him. "That's the spirit!"

YES, said Death. ISN'T IT.

–––

At ten twenty-one, Mr Young decided he needed to have a talk with his son.

"Adam!"

"Yes, Dad?"

"I think it's time you explained a few things, young man."

This couldn't be good. "Er, yes, Dad?"

"Your mother and I would like to know," and he took his pipe out of his mouth and gestured about with it, "just what kind of people these are. I've tried speaking with some of them..."

Oh. Bad. Very bad.

"...but I haven't received a single straightforward answer, from anyone, about what he, or she, does for a living or where they're from, or even what their full names are! And there's your poor mother, who almost had a fit when that tall, thin fellow over there appeared next to her without a warning!"

"He's very sorry, Dad."

"Well, well! That may be, but it still doesn't tell me what sort they are. Odd lot, very odd, and such un-English behaviour, most of them. Don't quite trust them, sir. Are they hippies? Radicals? Come, boy, out with it!"

Adam looked around him...

...at Aziraphale, pouring Death another cup of tea, chatting pleasantly all the while...

...at War and Pepper, discussing whether or not to leave Pestilence tied up like that all night...

...at Pestilence himself, nearly mummified and glaring out at the world at large...

...at Wensleydale and Famine, playing chess on the former's portable chess board...

...at Pollution and Brian, gleefully experimenting on the latter's Silly Putty...

...at Crowley, menacing the Christmas palm and having fresh dates sprout over his head...

...and then he turned back to his father. Well, no help for it: he'd best just tell him the truth, plain and simple. "They're... all a bit bonkers, Dad. But they're good people. Really."

"Hmph."

–––

Fifty minutes past eleven.

"It's almost time, dearest," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley took his hand and patted it. "You'll be fine, angel. Just stay calm. It's okay."

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes. Yes, of course, you're right. Thank you."

"Hey, Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"What did you just call me?"

Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley kissed his hand. "My angel," he said.

–––

Midnight.

"Look," said Adam, and pointed straight up at the stars.

All conversations ceased, and thirteen pairs of eyes were turned up towards the night sky.

For a long time, for hours, no-one stirred, their faces bathed in light, until the first pale signs of dawn appeared in the east.

Then they all left. In silence, they went back, in small groups, none of them alone, they went back to their homes and hotels. For many days, they would not be able to speak to each other of what they had seen. It was good, that way.

–––

_Midnight, the year 1_

A star flared to life over Bethlehem.


End file.
